


Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me

by Boudoir_Writer



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Sex, Arranged Marriage, Bathing/Washing, Blasphemy, Catholic Guilt, Chastity Device, Cock Cages, Control Issues, Crying, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Edging, If You Squint - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Denial, Power Imbalance, Religious Conflict, Religious Fanaticism, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Sort Of, Touch-Starved, Under-negotiated Kink, only implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:15:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28983210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boudoir_Writer/pseuds/Boudoir_Writer
Summary: He thought in time he would grow accustomed to Yusuf’s touch. But as the unforgiving sun will always burn his skin, so every fleeting pass of those fingers unfailingly sets it alight. It’s a different kind of heat, of torment: one leaves him yearning for the soothing balm of cool water, the other for the full brunt of the blaze.for this kink meme prompt:"Virgin!Nicolò offers himself as a groom to General Yusuf in order to end their war. The only caveat is that he expects the general to respect his vow of chastity."
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 56
Kudos: 223





	Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me

**Author's Note:**

> For this kink meme prompt  
> https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2998.html?thread=753590
> 
> these prompt hit my kinks like WHOA so of course I wasted the day writing and posting this rather that doing more productive things. Mais je ne regrette rien!
> 
> Title - do I need to say? - it's shamelessly stolen from John Donne's Holy Sonnet XIV because if Nicolò ever wrote poetry for Joe he would write THAT. this much I know.
> 
> Read the prompt. Mind the tags and if you think I missed any, let me know and I'll add asap. Seriously, mind the tags. You have been warned. Also read the footnote for specifics of Joe's role and further info if you so wish.
> 
> Unbetaed, sorry.

They bathe together every day, when the sun settles and the heat of the day lingers on their skin. Nicolò cherishes the cool kiss of water, such a rare gift this side of the world. Almost a year since the war ended, almost a year since he became consort to the Crown Prince, and he still struggles with the oppressive heat. Maybe he always will. The baths would help: the quiet gurgle of water, the intricate mosaics, the amber light of the oil lamps glittering on tile and skin alike. But then the baths mean Yusuf’s hands on him. Yusuf, who has offered early on in their union to wash Nicolò’s back, the handwoven cloth scratching at a phantom itch, at sweat and sand.

_ This is how we do it here _ , Yusuf had said, that smile curling his lips, crinkling his eyes.  _ We take care of each other. Let me take care of you. _

Only Nicolò’s back, at first. He offered to wash his hair, next, once it started to graze his shoulders. Nicolò had considered trimming it back to his chin, the way he had worn it when he surrendered himself to secure the peace treaty. But Yusuf had run his nimble fingers through it, clicked his tongue. He had looked pained at the suggestion, and Nicolò could not bear to see disappointment dim his smile. So now he wears his hair long, past his shoulders. In exchange Yusuf washes it every evening with gentle, deft fingers, coaxing shudders out of Nicolò with every light scratch to his scalp, every touch to the nape of his neck.

He thought in time he would grow accustomed to Yusuf’s touch. But as the unforgiving sun will always burn his skin, so every fleeting pass of those fingers unfailingly sets it alight. It’s a different kind of heat, of torment: one leaves him yearning for the soothing balm of cool water, the other for the full brunt of the blaze. Maybe it was the long years spent in the habit, shrouded in rough cloth and quiet solitude, deprived of human touch. Or maybe it was the oppressive hold of the chain mail, when it was forced upon him, and with it the violent touch of battle. Nicolò does not know. Even the discipline and the cilice has done little to prepare him for the sweet torture of Yusuf’s touch: the scars on his back seem to come alive for its promise, and that poses a harder challenge to Nicolò’s will than inflicting those same scars to himself ever was.

_ Because you are weak, _ the righteous voice in his head supplies.  _ Weak and corrupted by your sinful flesh. _

Why would he offer himself to an infidel, instead of hurrying back to the cloister? 

_ For peace _ , he argues against the voice, but his pathetic protests elicit ridicule and shame.

And shamed he should be, because when Yusuf offered to help Nicolò wash there too, once a week, Nicolò capitulated easily enough. He had hesitated, of course. Not in modesty: Nicolò had come to their union fully aware of Yusuf’s rights to his consort’s body.

Nor in disgust: certainly not at Yusuf’s touch,  _ never _ at Yusuf’s touch, no matter how intimate, how exacting - and since that first night in Yusuf’s bed and every night thereafter, Nicolò has come to know just how intimate and exacting that touch can be.

No.

It is that the flesh _ is _ weak and Nicolò’s resolve more so. And yet, this is the only thing he asked for himself, for the man he once was, the only thing he didn’t relinquish to Yusuf’s rule.

_ I am a priest _ , Nicolò had confessed, when they were allowed a brief meeting while the treaty papers were drawn. His hands were shaking in spite of his resolve, so he clasped them behind his back.  _ Sworn to chastity _ .

The prince had hummed and turned away to stare the neat rows of his army tents shimmering under the sun. Nicolò had watched the playful smile on those lips evaporate like mist at dawn, and his stomach had tied in knots.  _ I am sorry _ , he had blurted.

To let his insecurities threaten the peace process, he scolded himself. How did he dare?

_ Don’t be _ , the prince had said and offered his hand.  _ If this matters to you, we’ll find a way _ .

Nicolò hesitated.  _ I don’t see how -  _ he began, now wringing his fingers, not daring to reach for that hand. Virgin he might be, but he knew what it would be required of him. How could he keep chaste and still perform his duties as a consort? 

_ Do you not have faith, Nicolò? _

_ In God? _ He stammered, taken aback.

_In_ _me_.

And Nicolò found he did, so he reached out and clasped that hand and held on to his faith in Yusuf as he submitted himself to the court doctor’s intrusive questions and prying fingers, as he swore to respect his husband and obey his wishes, as he held still while Yusuf’s nimble fingers locked his manhood away, the key on the golden chain around Yusuf’s neck, resting on his heart, where Nicolò could always see it.

That day the smile was back, brighter than the sun and Nicolò was blinded.

And yet, every time Yusuf kneels between his legs and removes the cage that keeps his sex soft and helpless, that keeps Nicolò chaste, he regrets accepting Yusuf’s help in this too. Worse,God forgive him, he regrets ever bringing his vow up: for every time Yusuf kneels between his legs and removes the cage that keeps his sex soft and helpless, that keeps Nicolò chaste, it gets harder to remember why he ever agreed to this.

And yet he doesn’t dare ask for the key, for relief, release. Because what if Yusuf would not grant it?  _ And as well he shouldn’t!  _ The voice clamors, swift to condemn Nicolò’s rebellious thoughts.  _ Figure that, having to rely on an infidel to keep a man of god true to his vow!  _

The moment his sex is free of the cage, it raises and swells, as if straining for Yusuf’s touch, for, God forgive him, his mouth. Nicolò can only clench his teeth, his fists and submit to this slow, grinding test of his will.

In these first, desperate moments, even a breath too deep could tip the balance.

But Yusuf knows to wait, knows to keep a steady touch as he starts to rub Nicolò’s stiff member with the washcloth, drenched in sanitizing oils that will leave the skin tingling for a long while after he’s locked back in the cage.

The coarse fabric that feels so good on his back turns to a scourge against the sensitive gland, so unaccustomed to touch. Yusuf is considerate but relentless, dabbing at Nicolò’s slit and cleaning under the foreskin. It is only when every inch of skin is scrubbed raw and thoroughly coated in oils that he lets go.

By then Nicolò is drenched in sweat and can barely hold on to his resolve.

He is granted a few minutes of blessed respite as Yusuf cleans the cage, sets it to the side to dry. Then he kisses Nicolò, slow and deep.

“My chaste Nicolò,” he growls. “Look at what your unwavering virtue does to me.”

Yusuf’s sex is hot and hard against his. The touch wrenches a moan out of him, and Yusuf silences that with a kiss that leaves Nicolò dazed and breathless. He could offer his mouth or his hands, but that would be sparing himself. Yusuf is already indulging his wish, how much more selfish can Nicolò be?

So instead he turns into Yusuf’s embrace and kneels on the floor, forearms on the bench, tiles harsh against his knees. It is not lost on Nicolò how he knelt countless times in the exact same manner for prayer, for guidance, for penitence. Now he kneels for Yusuf’s pleasure. His deft fingers, descend to the crack of Nicolò’s buttocks, rub at the puckered entrance they have come to know so intimately.

It occurs to Nicolò, in these moments, that Yusuf knows his body better than he does. He shivers as Yusuf’s fingers breach him and rub the scented oils deep within him, easily finding that place that threatens to undo him. Each nudge against the sensitive nerves leaves him trembling with the cage on. Without the cage, he can barely think.

“Yusuf,” he breathes, hopes, prays. His member weeps as he wishes too, a swell of the tide like those summer evenings in Genova, dark and heavy. It presses between his legs, behind his eyelids, down his throat. It roars in his ears, in his chest. It threatens to sweep and drown.

“My darling. Will you deny me as you deny yourself?” The words cut through the haze, cut deep where Nicolò is soft and unguarded, and there’s something in the tinge of Yusuf’s voice, something that makes Nicolò’s shudder as he fights to hold still, to not sink back on those fingers.

“The cage,” he begs, even though he knows it’s useless.

“Just give the word and I’ll stop,” Yusuf offers instead, and enters Nicolò on the next breath. Nicolò swallows a whimper, a shout, a shameless moan, and braces against the bench.

As Yusuf thrusts into him, ruthlessly rubbing at that place, it is only his will holding him back. A cage of his own making.

Yusuf is relentless, his hands firm on Nicolò’s hips. There’s no hiding, no resisting: a besieged city, walls crumbling under the assault. It’s only a question of when.

It’s been almost a year. How much longer can Nicolò resist? How much longer before he unravels?

He bows his head lower under the humiliation of his weakness and gives himself to his torment as he once gave himself to penance. Yusuf takes it as a request to go harder, deeper. He snaps his hips, each perfect thrust increasing his pleasure as it increases Nicolò’s struggle.

“Please,” he begs eventually, and Yusuf, God bless him, goes still, stays deeply embedded into Nicolò as he gasps and quivers, as he battles the molten pleasure threatening to spill out of him. It’s a short reprieve, a tiny step back from the abyss. Just enough to start the grapple with his will once more. Nicolò pays the small mercy back with interest, drawing his torment out longer than it would need to be were he able to control his lustful urges and allow Yusuf to partake in his body as he wishes, as it is his God given right.

Nicolò loses track of the times he gets to dance right to the edge, only to be brought back kicking and screaming. He loses himself in Yusuf’s murmured praise and his grounding touch and his measured thrusts. All the while the vise of Nicolò’s need winds tighter, and tighter still, until it squeezes the air right out of his lungs. Even on the battlefield, he has never felt so close to dying, and yet, he wonders afterwards, it never occurs to him to just let go.

“Oh, God, forgive me, I can’t, I  _ can’t  _ -” he chokes out, now truly unable to breathe in between the sobs spilling out of his lips, the tears clogging his throat. Yusuf - patient, understanding Yusuf - stills once more, kisses his heaving back, pets his trembling flanks until the worst of the crisis subsides.

“Of course you can, my love, just take your time,” he murmurs against Nicolò’s spine, steady and encouraging. His hips shift a fraction and Nicolò whimpers. “We have all night and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be, I _ swear. _ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Top Joe in this piece, sort of Dom Joe if you squint. The piece is strictly Nicky's POV and he comes with Roman Catholic baggage, folks, so be careful. In the background, a vague religious conflict.
> 
> More importantly I'm a sucker for mind fuck, control and power imbalance and while there's next to nothing in the piece to suggest that Yusuf is anything other than a perfect gentleman and doing his husband's bidding, some things here and there might give you a different feel, hence the dub-con warning. Nicky's mind is a scary place, the author's too, so enter at your peril.
> 
> I'm still pretty new in this fandom and this is my first Joe/Nicky so let me know what you think!
> 
> Also, should I think of a sequel? YAY? NAY?


End file.
